


A Cold London Night

by courteouswall



Category: Mary Russell - Laurie R. King
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kisses, Laurie R. King, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courteouswall/pseuds/courteouswall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has a case. Just a small one, and as usual, Russell's assistance is requested. She was never too fond of overly fancy parties...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cold London Night

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this in two sittings as a very late present for my friend. We're both big fans of the Mary Russell series and I felt the fanfiction itch. I didn't have a beta, so I apologize for spelling errors (they happen).

It was a cold London day, and one that threatened to become a freezing London night. I hadn't heard from Holmes for at least a week, nor seen any sign of him. Though I wouldn't be entirely surprised if he had followed me down the street on one of my rare outings under the steel gray skies of the city. I had gone into the city a week earlier to visit a school friend, and was staying in her tiny apartment with one other girl. I must admit that it had been great fun and I was reluctant to leave. Nevertheless I had to return to college at the start of next week to complete work on a long and complex paper.

At the present moment however, I was content to march alone down the cobbled streets in thick soled boots. I had gathered my hair under my well-worn cloth cap when the strands had begun to bother me by whipping into my face with every stray gust of wind. I had drawn my scarf up over my nose and mouth to keep my lungs warm and my nose from dripping. The scarf was one I had borrowed from Holmes the last time I had visited Sussex. My own had been misplaced sometime during the last term and I did not relish the thought of returning home every day with a wind chilled throat. So I walked steadily onward, inhaling the strong scent of pipe tobacco and Sussex downs that permeated Holmes' cottage.

I fumbled with the key when I reached the door of my friend's flat. My numb fingers eventually inserted the key into the lock and I paused, attempting to scrape compacted snow from the bottom of my boots. I froze, peering down at the doormat. There, at the edge of the woven fibers: a muddy footprint. Not just wet, but muddy. It was clearly pointing toward the door, as though someone had carelessly stomped onto the mat as they walked inside. I drew back, leaving the key in the lock, unturned, and crouched to examine the print more carefully.

There was a small plant stuck in the half-dry mud of the print. I gently pried it loose with a nail and held it up, hoping the weak sunlight would illuminate it. It looked like a flower, a crushed buttercup. I frowned. Where would one get buttercups in London? They were rare for even the most prestigious florists and anyone in muddy boots on this side of the city would not be frequenting them. Think, I told myself. Holmes has shown you the maps for native flower growth across England a hundred times.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes when I remembered. Sussex. Of course. I straightened up, still holding the small flower and turned the key in the lock. I found my partner reclining in my school friend's armchair, making full use of the crackling fire. Holmes was casually flicking through a small book bound in bright red leather. He addressed me without raising his eyes from the book.

“Shouldn't you be more cautious about opening the door when you're returning home alone, Russell?” He asked evenly, a flicker at the corner of his mouth betraying his amusement.

“I found the buttercup,” I answered by way of explanation. I crossed the tiny room to stand in front of the fire, gradually removing my layers of winter clothes. Stamping my feet in an effort to get some feeling back into them, I asked, “Would a telegram have been simply too mundane?” Holmes didn't answer right away.

He sighed, put down the book, and steepled his fingers. I met his gaze evenly. “There's to be a party tonight and I would be honored if you would accompany me.” Holmes noticed my shocked expression and amended the statement. “The host is an old acquaintance of mine and has suffered the loss of his most precious treasure about two weeks ago.”

“And this takes us to his house during a party?” I raised my voice as I moved into the kitchen to prepare myself a mug of strong, hot tea. I would have offered Holmes a cup, but judging from the cold dregs in a beige mug on the counter, he had already helped himself. 

Holmes held up a finger. “Indeed, Russell. The host – a Mr. Golding – believes one or two of his close colleagues were the culprits. A complicated plot against Mr. Golding would be most unfortunate for him.” I heard the slight humor in Holmes' voice and scoffed softly in response. 

Despite myself, I found the possibilities interesting. Though the evening was likely to be full of more political intrigue than physical action, you never could tell with Holmes. I soon returned to the chair across from Holmes with my mug clasped in tingling fingers.

“Is that all?” I asked him. Holmes did have the tendency to forget certain important information when preoccupied with a case. For example: where exactly he was dragging me off to and when I would need to be ready.

“There is one other thing,” Holmes replied, prodding at the fire. “You'll need this.” He reached into his coat pocket and held out an intricate masquerade mask. He smirked over at me infuriatingly.

I carefully took the mask from his long fingers and examined it. It was quite a flashy thing, I had to admit. Gold paint across the nose bridge and under the eye holes faded into bright purple along the temples. Lines of gold glitter arched across the ensemble in elegant curlicues and outlined the angled gaps for the eyes of the wearer. I raised my eyebrows and glanced up at Holmes. “A masquerade? An interesting way to root out covert operations.”

“Come now, Russell. We are dealing with high society here.” With that, Holmes clutched the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. I met his gaze silently. “I trust you can rustle up something to match that.” It was definitely a statement.

I nodded. What could I do? When adventure called, Holmes and Russell responded. Usually with great haste. I stood and saw Holmes to the door. Just as he was stepping over the threshold, he whirled around. I flinched back instinctively and instantly regretted it. “I'll come by with a cab at eight.” With another small nod from me, he was off into the streets, black coat flapping behind him like the wings of a strange, thin bird.

By the time my friends returned home, I'd already gone through all the dresses I had brought with me into the city and decided that none of them would be suitable. There was a nice form-fitting black dress that I rather liked; however, it did not match the mask Holmes had given me. I had placed the mask on my nightstand and glanced back to it every now and then, holding up a dress to compare, before eventually shaking my head and tossing the dress onto my bed.

“Mary!” Elizabeth called out. I could hear the sound of two girls entering the apartment and ridding themselves of their winter clothes. I had already changed into a simple skirt to avoid the questions that would be asked if I was found in trousers. “Were you inside all day? You really should get some...” Elizabeth trailed off when she entered my room to find me staring at the contents of my closet with hands stuck on my hips.

“Oh, hello, Elizabeth,” I gave her a quick smile, my mind still occupied with trying to match bodices to masks and shoes to glitter. Holly stepped into the room and peeked over Elizabeth's shoulder. 

“Have you lost something?” Holly asked, looking so concerned that I had to laugh.

“No, not at all. I just seem to be having trouble finding the right dress.” I sighed and brushed aside a pile of skirts to sit down on the edge of the bed. I rested my chin on my hands and peered up at Elizabeth, who now had her arms crossed. “I don't suppose either of you would have anything to match this mask?” I delicately picked up the object in question and passed to Holly.

Elizabeth chewed on her bottom lip before rushing from the room. She raised her voice from her own room down the hall. “I was beginning to think I'd never have a use for this dress, Mary. It's really just perfect, you know.” Holly and I smiled at the clanking of hangers and the banging of a closet door. When Elizabeth returned, she draped a dress across the end of my bed. I stood and we all crowded around, each lending a unique opinion.

“It's beautiful,” Holly offered. “And immaculate.”

“The beading on the bodice will be perfect,” Elizabeth said.

“I'll need a couple of pins to bring in the waist.” I mused. “But I believe I have the right shoes.” I pulled the pair from under my bed: the heel was short enough that I wouldn't twist my ankle easily. And the t-strap featured a bright gold buckle.

Elizabeth nodded in approval. She sent Holly to fetch safety pins from her room and helped me lace up the back of the dress. As I was taller than Elizabeth, the dark purple skirt fell to just above floor length. “If anyone notices, I can always become overly insulted.” I suggested, examining myself in the long mirror.

Holly returned and expertly pinned the waist, hiding the pins under the seams and managing not to knick me even once. She did come very close after asking me who was escorting me to the party, however. “Mary, you never told us who invited you to the party.” I could see her fiddling with an errant seam in the mirror.

“Ah, I had forgotten. Sherlock Holmes will be escorting me.” I answered absently, planning exactly how I would pin up my hair. 

Holly jerked in surprise and Elizabeth looked up from the back of the room. “The Sherlock Holmes? The retired detective?” Holly asked incredulously.

“Yes, the very one.”

“My, what fascinating circles you run in, Mary Russell,” Elizabeth smiled and shook her head in wonder.

When Holly had closed the last safety pin and I had tamed my hair into a neatly pinned bun at the nape of my neck, Elizabeth handed me the mask. I removed my glasses with no small measure of reluctance. It would be difficult enough walking about in heels for the whole night without having my vision impaired as well, but there was no way to wear my spectacles with the mask.

With every piece in place, I glanced at the wall clock. Barely half and hour before Holmes would be at the front door. And knowing Holmes, he would be punctual, maybe even early. My friends and I filled the time with entertaining notions of what the night would bring. Well, Elizabeth and Holly traded invented anecdotes while I struggled not to roll my eyes. There really was no chance of getting into a gun fight that required Holmes throwing me onto the ground and shielding me with his body. Or dancing that resulted in a theatrical dip.

When the doorbell rang, Holly jumped up first, no doubt excited to meet the man whom she had read so much about in the papers. I hoped she wouldn't make a fool of herself and discover that he wasn't exactly what Conan Doyle made him out to be.

With that rather worrying thought, I picked up my skirt and hurried after her to the door, almost running into the hall table. I looked up to see Holly hiding a smile behind her hand and holding the door open to an imposing figure. Say what you will about Holmes, but he was quite good at picking the right clothes for himself.

He had gone with a more understated mask: a thing of dark red leather, embossed with dancing silver spirals. His suit was all black and tailored perfectly, the only spot of color his red tie. I raised an eyebrow, forgetting that it wouldn't be visible behind my mask. “Russell,” Holmes offered his arm and a nod as greeting. I returned the nod and took his arm.

As I was led to the car, I slipped my hand into his, carefully passing him my spectacles. Surely he could spare an inner pocket to keep them safe. When I had stepped into the cab and Holmes had pulled the door shut, I leaned around him to offer a jaunty wave to Elizabeth and Holly. “I am impressed, Russell.”

“Oh? Whatever for?” I wondered. Although it was nice to impress Holmes, I wanted to know exactly what I had done in case I wished to repeat the effect.

Holmes glanced at me, folding his hands in his lap. “You have found a most satisfactory dress, and adjusted it very well.” Of course he had noticed that the dress had been rather hastily altered. I hoped the ladies of high society did not have the eagle eyes for fashion of a retired consulting detective.

“Yes, unfortunately Elizabeth is shorter and slightly wider than I am.” I relaxed into the rocking motion of the cab. “Do you have more information about the case to tell me?”

Holmes sat up straighter in the seat. “Ah, yes. Mr. Golding is, as you may know, ambassador to a country that England would very much like to keep diplomatic relations with.” Holmes did not offer the name of the country, and I did not ask for it. If it was important to the case, he would have told me. “The treasure in question is a bejeweled scepter given to him as a symbol of peaceful communication by the king and queen of said country. Losing it would, of course, be an immense insult.” Holmes's tone suggested that it would be an immense insult easily ignored by him.

“And Mr. Golding has invited all his close colleagues that knew anything at all about the scepter to this party so that you could meet them.” I said, continuing when Holmes nodded in agreement. “But how do we know the thief was one of his colleagues? And the scepter could of course be anywhere in England by now.”

“Well, no. Mr. Golding is in the habit of checking the door to the room the scepter is stored in every morning and night.” Holmes glanced outside the window, then began to speak faster. “The last dinner party he threw was two weeks ago and while the guests were occupied at the piano, he excused himself to check on the scepter. The door was unlocked and he rushed inside to find that the scepter was gone. The police were very thorough but could find no sign of forced entry.”

I nodded slowly. If the policemen had been competent, then naturally the culprit would have been one of the guests that night. “Does Mr. Golding employ household help?” I asked Holmes.

“Yes, but only a cook and a maid. They're both very elderly and they had not left the house at all that evening. Their rooms were thoroughly checked and nothing in the least nefarious could be found. Additionally, every guest was questioned and searched as they left the house. As you may suspect, the scepter was not found on any of them.”

Sitting back, I pondered this information. The reasons for us attending the party were now quite clear. The only place the scepter could be was somewhere in the house. It would be stupid to even ask if Mr. Golding had searched the rest of the house. Anyone with an ounce of sense would have. So the most intelligent and convenient time to remove the scepter would be another party.

Holmes examined my expression for a second before seeing that I had understood. He turned toward the window as the cab slowed. “Ah, it appears we've arrived.” I strained to see around Holmes and was surprised by the house we had stopped at. It was a house befitting an ambassador, with high arches framing the doorway and tall columns giving the house the look of having been plucked from ancient Greece and dropped in the outskirts of London.

“It's certainly august,” I muttered. My partner gave a hum of agreement before stepping from the cab and offering his hand. I took it graciously, and managed to keep my balance on the cobblestones. 

Holmes took my arm as he thanked the driver. He regarded me with amusement until I met his gaze. The mask he wore hid most of his expression but couldn't conceal the gleam in his eye. “Yes, alright Holmes, you'll have the satisfaction of leading me to the door since I don't have my spectacles at the moment. No need to dwell on it...”

“Oh not at all Russell, not at all.” With that, Holmes turned on his heel, pulling me along with him, and we set off towards the house, coat and skirts flapping. I was shaking my head in disbelief when the door was opened and a portly man with very untidy hair and a glass of whiskey greeted us.

He clapped Holmes on the shoulder while sporting a huge grin. “Holmes! My guest of honor! Do come in out of the cold.” We were ushered in, where our host seemed to notice me for the first time. “With a lovely lady in tow. Enchanté, my dear.” I smiled as he gracefully dropped into a bow and brought the back of my hand to his lips.

“Mary, this is Mr. Golding.” Holmes added, rather unnecessarily. “Mr. Golding, this is Mary Russell, my partner.” This last remark caused a fair amount of eyebrow raising and drew the inquisitive glances of a group of men standing near by.

“Is that Mr. Holmes? Do come and tell us about your investigations!” I spotted a young man in a turquoise mask gesturing with his drink. I shot a quick glance at Holmes, whose expression gave him the look of one hiding the symptoms of some rather bothersome indigestion. Unfortunately, he heard the small laugh I hid under my hand and glared across at me.

Before I could return the look, however, Mr. Golding had ushered my partner away, leaving me alone in a small cleared space. Glancing about, I stepped forward into the large house. As I had expected, the foyer and sitting room were packed with ladies and gentlemen of the highest social class. The fact that they were wearing masks did not make it any easier to identify them. It didn't seem to matter to two older ladies who instantly accepted me into their little group in the corner with a compliment to my dress and a disapproving look at my left ring finger.

Thankfully, they allowed me a glass of white wine. “Dearie, do you like the look of that man over there?” The woman named Ethel asked. Following her discreetly pointing finger, I spotted a man who could only be called overweight wearing a gaudy peacock feather mask. I spluttered and almost spilled wine down my bodice.

“Just went down the wrong way, I'm quite alright. Really,” I choked out, waving away the hovering hands of Myrtle.

Myrtle seemed to understand my worries and swatted playfully at her companion with a sly smile. “Oh come now, Ethel. Mary is much too spritely for Mr. Brooks. His arthritis is acting up more and more, you know...”

I took advantage of the changing topics to search out Holmes. As a lady in a violent shade of chartreuse stepped to the left, I caught sight of my partner's red mask. By squinting, I managed to make out what he was doing. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Holmes was lounging against the mantle, a cigarette hanging almost lazily from his fingers as he listened intently to something a man in a purple feathered mask was saying. He didn't even seem to be doing anything pertinent to the case. I was just about to shrug and turn away when Holmes looked up and met my eyes.

Without breaking his gaze, Holmes tapped off the ash of his cigarette, took one last pull, jammed it out in a cut glass ashtray, and began to stride towards me. I jerked my eyes down and prayed that he wouldn't say anything to anger the two elderly ladies. And that they wouldn't bring up the subject of marriage. Myrtle giggled.

“Mary, a dashing gentleman is walking this way. Do you happen to know him?” Myrtle whispered in my ear. I cast about for an excuse before deciding it didn't really matter, Golding had practically announced our presence to the whole house.

“Yes, that's Sherlock Holmes, my partner.” No need to mention exactly what kind of dangerous cases we'd worked on. Ethel was frowning and opened her mouth as if in protest but before she could speak, Holmes had reached us and placed a casual hand on my lower back.

He smiled benevolently at Ethel and Myrtle. “Good evening, ladies. If you wouldn't mind, I need to have a few private words with my partner.” Ethel and Myrtle raised no complaints and he led me away to a secluded alcove.

Holmes leaned on the wall, putting his back to the crowd in the room, effectively blocking our conversation from view. “How goes the socializing, Russell?” I was pleased to hear the false polite tone drop from his voice.

“Fine, Holmes. Aside from the fact that those two women are determined to marry me off before the night is over.” The corners of his lips twitched. I crossed my arms and attempted to examine Holmes' face for any clues about how the case was going. “What have you found?”

He adjusted his tie before speaking. “I believe I have identified who the culprits are. Smith, wearing a purple feathered mask, and Griffiths, wearing a navy blue silk mask.”

So that was the man Holmes was standing with earlier. “Are we going to stay for the rest of the dinner party or just turn them in to Golding?”

“For shame, Russell. Leaving before eating dinner would be very impolite. Don't forget, we are the guests of honor.” He smiled down at me. I sighed, but didn't push the point.

“Right, fine. You'll at least give me a warning before you drag me off to chase them down?”

He simply nodded. “After dinner, most likely,” Holmes said. With that, he spun on his heel and strode off in the direction of a tray of drinks on the sideboard. I sighed and poured myself a glass of wine which I had no intention of drinking.

Dinner was a loud and interesting affair. Mr. Golding made many jokes and everyone laughed heartily. Probably because the majority of the guests were more than a little in their cups. I had been seated across the table from Holmes and we exchanged amused and annoyed glances as we made our way through the four courses presented to us. Since Holmes had invited Griffiths to sit at his right and Myrtle and inserted herself to my left, we weren't able to speak to each other until it was time for coffee. Mr. Golding rang a delicate silver bell, the chime cutting through the hubbub, and invited us all back into the sitting room.

Several guests excused themselves at this time and began saying their goodbyes. The parlor turned into even more of a whirlwind of bodies and coats being retrieved. I managed to locate Holmes even without my spectacles and looked at him in askance. He shook his head a tiny amount. Right. We were staying longer.

Ethel and Myrtle waved to me cheerily as they moved towards the door, arm in arm. I almost went to their side to walk them to the door but a hand closed around my shoulder. “Holmes, what –,” I started to ask, but Holmes squeezed my shoulder and tilted his head toward the french doors leading to Golding's back garden. They were swinging shut and no one else had noticed in the general rush.

Before I could suggest any sort of motion, Holmes was already propelling me gently but firmly towards the doors, pushing my spectacles into my hands at the same time. I worried about tripping but I forgave Holmes for the speed of our exit. It would have been a great shame if two criminals got away with a precious artifact because a lady's shoes gave her a spot of trouble.

Reaching the french doors, Holmes took my arm and slowed our pace, obviously wishing to appear as two guests coming out into the garden for some fresh air. Or a private moment. I shook the last thought from my mind and turned to look at the grassy area we had entered.

I don't believe I had ever seen a larger garden in London, except maybe at the palace, and I don't believe I ever will. It was hard to appreciate the beauty of the landscaping on a winter's night, but the decorative bridge over the small lake and the surrounding shrubbery was clear in the light shining from the house behind us. The moon's light reflected off of the surface of the mostly frozen lake and patches of snow dotted the grass.

I untied my mask and handed it to Holmes. With my spectacles placed on my nose, I could make out two figures walking quickly toward the delicately curved bridge. Holmes had seen it too because he pulled me into the shelter created by a willow tree with low hanging branches. “I think you will find, Russell, that those are our two culprits.”

“What do you suggest?” I asked quietly. There were dense shrubs surrounding the lake which would provide enough cover if we needed to catch the men unawares. As the men reached the top of the bridge, they were lit by the moonlight and I could spot one of the men holding something under his arm. A long, cloth wrapped object which was almost certainly the scepter. The two figures paused and began gesturing rapidly to each other.

“Ah there's the trouble, Russell.” Holmes leaned down conspiratorially. “They didn't have enough time to plan their escape and now it's come to an argument.” He smiled slightly and put his back against the trunk of the willow.

“You've thought up a plan, haven't you?” I replied bitterly.

* * *

Scarcely five minutes later, I found myself sneaking behind some shrubs toward the bridge. Holmes had graciously given me the use of his socks, now wearing his dress shoes on his bare feet. I was secretly very glad that I was able to leave my own shoes under the willow tree. I would not have liked to march into the possibility of a fistfight in heels.

I reached the end of the bridge, and moved forward, confident that the men were too engaged in their argument to notice. I flattened myself against the side of the bridge, squinting to make out the shadow that revealed Holmes's position. I waited for a tense moment, feeling the damp seep into my socks and sleeves. When the call of an owl carried across the lake, I stepped onto the bridge. I stayed bent over, trying to delay the moment that I would be noticed.

Holmes made the first move, grabbing the man on his side from the neck and dragging him back from the middle of the bridge. The second man, who held the scepter's package now, panicked and spun around. I straightened quickly, trying to read Smith's body-language. He looked confused, no doubt surprised by my gender. I moved forward quickly, sending a punch into his jaw. He reacted quickly, getting his hands up and onto my shoulders.

Smith shoved me hard into the wooden railing of the bridge behind me. I thought I felt it shift under the strain. Gritting my teeth and praying the construction was stronger than it looked, I braced my upper body against it. Just as Smith was tucking the tightly wrapped scepter under his arm, I kicked out at his stomach. Due to the narrowness of the bridge, this sent the man back into the railing across from me. The scepter was dropped and began to roll down the slightly curved planks of the bridge.

Unfortunately, I could not admire my handiwork because the railing supporting me had given way, dumping me onto the thin ice on the surface of the lake. Naturally, it cracked ominously and I scrabbled to my knees, my skirts catching on the uneven surface. I stayed low, keeping my weight spread equally and knowing that standing up straight now would most certainly send me into the lake.

The closest solid ground was the shore of the lake, which was at least twenty feet away. The bridge was only two feet to my right and the planks were at the level of my chest. It had been constructed close to the surface of the water, most likely to create a lovely sight in the warmer months. I could pull myself up easily, if the two men had been detained, that is. And if the weak ice beneath me held.

I was about to turn and take stock of the situation when I heard a strangled groan and a man flew over the far side of the bridge. He was much too heavy to be Holmes and his landing split the ice in long jagged cracks. I winced at the cracking sound and looked back towards the bridge for the scepter. The bundle was dangerously close to the edge of the bridge.

Without thinking, I reached out my right hand, shifted my weight to my right foot, and lunged forwards. The sense of victory when my hand closed around the scepter was definitely short-lived, because the spreading cracks from Griffiths's fall had reached me and the stress of my movement created a large rift in the ice.

I fell through of course; there was no helping it. The icy water was a horrible shock, making my chest seize up and leaving me breathless. If all my muscles hadn't contracted, I would surely have dropped the scepter somewhere in the murky waters. I kicked hard when I could think again and got my head above the water. My first thought was to get to shore. My second thought was to strangle Holmes. I braced my hands against the ice, testing the edge of the hole. I knew that if I pushed down on it to get myself up, it would simply crack further.

I didn't have much time for complicated decisions so I took a deep breath, and resorted to what is known as a woman's usual response to situations of danger. I screamed. In hindsight, simply shouting at Holmes would have probably been enough, but I was acting mostly on impulse. I had barely registered shadows gathering behind the lighted windows of the house before an extended hand entered my field of vision. Holmes was leaning against the balcony, using his height to his advantage and dangling his arms down to me. I reached up and grasped his wrists, praying my weight combined with that of my sodden dress wouldn't dislocate his shoulders.

Once he had hauled me up far enough, I climbed onto the edge of the railing and over it. It was even colder now, with the light breeze floating through the garden. I attempted to get the chattering of my teeth under control, but my efforts were in vain. Holmes was holding me at arms length, checking over me for any injuries.

“Holmes,” I stammered. “I'm – fine, really.” I pushed the scepter into his hands, turning away and wrapping my arms around myself. I squinted in the darkness, glad my glasses had stayed on my face even though they weren't much help with the lack of light.

“I apologize, Russell,” Holmes said. I spotted the quirk of his lips and spluttered in a poor attempt at scoffing. This only made him smile more but he shrugged out of his jacket and I stepped into it, not bothering to push my arms through the sleeves.

Holmes pulled me forward suddenly, causing me to stumble on my cold feet and knock into his chest. Long arms enveloped me and held me pressed into the body of my partner. I ducked my head and snuggled closer for a moment until shouts from the house shocked me out of my frozen stupor.

The male guests ran out to the garden and over to the men lying in the cold grass. Evidently Holmes had subdued my assailant and Griffiths, who had fallen into the lake, had been closer to the shore. They were quickly hauled upright and I spotted Mr. Golding questioning them as Holmes propelled me down the side of the bridge. The lady of the house fussed over me when we got back inside, rushing me out of the parlor and into a bed chamber. I let myself be stripped out of my soaked dress and accepted dry clothes graciously.

The parlor was empty when I returned. Holmes had stayed inside and stood close to the french doors, peering out at the proceedings. He preferred to leave the enforcing of the law to the policemen, who had no doubt been called to the scene. As he heard my approach, my partner picked up a blanket from the back of a couch and held it out to me.

“Thank you,” I said. I stepped up to the window next to Holmes and watched the shadowy figures of men hurrying about in the snow. My fingers and toes still tingled though there was a pleasant warmth spreading outward from my chest. Tt was making my head feel decidedly fuzzy, which may actually have been the returning effects of the alcohol I had consumed.

“Russell,” Holmes said, still looking out the window. I turned to him in askance. Our eyes met and I was briefly worried that the maids of the lady of the house would rush in to interrupt this moment.

Holmes was looking at me. Not with concern, but with a certain amount of wonder. This was new. It wasn't every day that I could impress my partner at all, and the dip in the icy water was almost worth it.

“I am fairly sure you are the only woman I know who can take down a government official, survive a surprise swim in a nearly frozen lake, retrieve a precious royal gift, and still look absolutely beautiful,” he remarked, looking straight out of the window again. I was briefly at a loss for words before deciding that accepting the compliment without making a fuss would be best.

“Thank you,” I answered, for the second time in as many minutes. I nodded awkwardly at him before turning back to the window. A few moments later, his hand was on my shoulder, rubbing small circles down my shoulder blade and spine. I took a step to the left, bringing myself closer to his side and the heat he practically exuded compared to my still-chilled skin.

Holmes's hand migrated down to my waist, so slowly that I almost didn't notice. His fingers curled into my side, but I resisted their pull, keeping some distance between our bodies. Holmes made a sound in his throat; one of annoyance and resignation. I allowed myself a small smirk, keeping my eyes forward although I was sure that Holmes had noticed.

The police had managed the men outside successfully and the guests were beginning to trek back to the house. Holmes moved to remove his arms but I finally stepped closer to him, resting my own hands on his shoulders, like a poor impression of a dance. The gesture surprised us both, although Holmes looked quite amused. The twinkle was back in his eyes.

I swallowed my doubts and pressed myself closer to Holmes, not caring that my hair was leaving damp spots on Holmes's shirt. His free hand stroked through my snarled hair and down to my cheek, tilting my head up. The first brush of his lips sent warmth blooming through my face. I pushed forward, taking the opportunity to deepen our kiss before we were found out by the other guests.

Holmes hummed in contentment and brushed his hand up from my waist to the middle of my back, tracing up my spine and keeping us pressed together. “This wasn't in the requirements for the case,” he murmured when we had briefly pulled away.

“I consider it my payment,” I replied, with a jaunty smirk and kissed him again. The trouble of the case had been well worth it, in light of the recent developments.

Holmes turned away suddenly, maintaining only the point of contact between his hand and my shoulder. If the light had been better, I fancied, he could have seen the slight flush along my cheekbones. Mr. Golding had re-entered the house with a small entourage of guests. He smiled widely and shook Holme's hand. “You are a marvel, Mr. Holmes! I must repay you.”

“Please, Mr. Golding, I can't take all the credit,” Holmes said, stepping to the side to allow Mr. Golding a clearer view of me. “Mary was the one who actually secured the scepter.” I nodded and smiled and allowed Golding to fuss over my soaked state until Holmes announced that it was getting rather late and wasn't I just exhausted.

I played my part well, letting my head sag onto Holmes's bony shoulder as we made out way out of the door and into a waiting cab. My shoes had been returned to me by one of the guests as we left. “I do hope Elizabeth won't be too upset about her dress,” I remarked, leaning back in the seat and letting my eyelids slide closed.

Holmes chuckled. “I could have Mycroft reimburse her. It was a matter of state affairs, after all.” I shrugged. The cab's seats were narrow, so Holmes's shoulder and thigh were pressed against mine. I enjoyed the transfer of body heat, wondering idly if I would ever feel warm again.   
I felt Holmes shift beside me and opened my eyes in time for Holmes to kiss me again, gently this time. It was his turn to smirk as I was left blinking in momentary surprise. Before he could slide away to the far end of the seat again, I took hold of the front of his shirt (his damp jacket having been folded in his lap for the time being) and tugged him into another kiss. I could feel him smile and the tension in his body melted away.

We took the rest of the cab trip without incident and reached the front door of my shared apartment. Holmes walked me to the door as the gentleman he was. We said our formal goodbyes and as I was unlocking the door, I asked, “Where was it hidden?”

“Behind the false back of a closet in the washroom,” he answered casually. With a wave, he was gone, the cab carrying him off into the city. And leaving me to explain the events of the night to my friends. Though maybe after a nice, hot bath...


End file.
